


WONDERLAND

by Wolfiekins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Male Slash, Masturbation, Oral Sex, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2645327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Ron are operatives for The Order on assignment, this time in Scotland.  Harry is having issues dealing with his suppressed feelings for Ron, and is unsure how Ron truly feels about him.  Post Hogwarts, Pre-Deathly Hallows.</p><p>WARNINGS:  UST, Angst, Adult Situations & Language, Slash, Graphic Sex, Masturbation</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written prior to _Deathly Hallows_. AU War!Fic. The title is taken from the BIG COUNTRY track of the same name, which can be found on their 1982 album, "Steeltown". The towns of Gairloch, Torridon and Auchtercairn, as well as the Gairloch Hotel, are all very real locales in the Scottish Highlands. I've borrowed Triple Q, again. The pub, The Woman in White, is fictional. Written in 2006 for [ Best Mates Xmas ](http://bestmates-xmas.livejournal.com) on Live Journal. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and all associated characters and settings remain the intellectual property of JK Rowling and her associates. No offence intended nor monies made through this presentation.

 

**_December, 2003_ **

 

 

I really dislike beans.

Hate them, actually.

Never used to feel that way. Could always take ‘em or leave ‘em. Anymore, though, I think I’d rather nosh a handful of Bertie Bott’s vomit jellybeans than another spoonful of canned beans.

But I’m just whinging. I feel like that more often than not lately.

So I’m not thrilled to be camped out in a mouldy tent in Scotland in December. A beautiful place, don’t get me wrong, but kind of hard to enjoy the scenery when the frost is building up. Or when complete strangers are trying to kill you.

But then that’s war, isn’t it?

Shouldn’t be a walk in the park, I reckon. Nothing neat and tidy or nice about it. Still doesn’t stop us from jumping in with both feet every now and again, does it?

Fucking Death Eaters.

I just can’t understand what on Merlin’s earth motivates a person to act like a total, complete fuckwad. I mean, what’s the appeal? Certainly can’t be Riddle. Charismatic, he isn’t. And those bloody pointed hats and skull masks look like something straight out of one of Dudley’s Muggle horror films.

Ridiculous.

Doesn’t stop them from keeping at it, though. We’ve captured so many, they’re actually running out of room in Azkaban. That prat Scrimgeour is pushing to create a new prison to properly accommodate all of the ‘enemy combatants'.

Just what this world needs: more sodding dementors.

Sometimes I think Minerva’s gone off her nut.

I realise that the responsibilities inherent in heading up The Order are pretty serious, but for Godric’s sake, how about a little transparency? She never explains herself anymore. Just a cryptic note or firecall and that’s that. Remus does his best to interject every now and then, but Minerva’s a changed person since the Battle of Hogwarts.

Sure, most of the time everything works out according to plan, but what would be wrong with a bit of insight every now and then? Shite, last month we were sent to Mozambique of all places, no real details given, as if Snakeface would actually hide a horcrux there. He didn’t, but what we _did_ find is that they have a really, _really_ nasty species of pixie there that makes our Cornish ones look like nifflers.

At least most of the bite marks are healed.

I’m just a tool, I suppose.

Goes along with being the Chosen One.

The Boy Who Didn’t Have The Decency To Die.

I do what I’m told to do. I follow orders.

Most of the time. Easier that way.

That’s why I’m stuck in this damned tent, cold, wet and hungry. Not a Death Eater to be found, despite what Minerva said. It’s been over a week now, and I’m more than a bit pent up.

About the mission, yeah, about those last two horcruxes we still haven‘t found, but there’s a bit more to it than that.

Okay, a _lot_ more to it.

I should be able to reason this through. I should be able to sort it out and move on.

I mean really, no shortage of blokes out there that wouldn’t jump at the chance to hop on my knob.

That’d be true even if I looked like Filch or Fletcher. Not being pompous here, just telling it like it is. I’m a catch, apparently, and most every queer wizard from Ballycastle to Ottery St. Catchpole wants a piece of me.

And more than a few Muggles as well.

Yeah, everyone it seems, save him.

The one that _I_ want.

The one that I want who doesn’t want me. Not in that way. The way that I want him to, that is.

So I’m in love with my best mate.

In lust. Both. Whatever.

How many times must I to go over this?

Well, one more, apparently. Not that I have anything else to do at the moment, what with Ron gone off to Torridon for supplies.

Dip a doxy, but I’m fuckin' knackered…

I think I’ve wanted Ron since the first day we met.

Not that I wanted to shag him then; I mean, we were only both eleven. But I’m pretty certain that’s when it started.

He was everything that I’d always dreamed a best mate would be: funny, friendly, warm, full of adventure and mischief. And he took me right in, treated me as one of his own right from the start. He made me feel like I belonged, like I had place that was mine.

I’d never had a best mate before, let alone any semblance of family.

He gave me all that, willingly, freely, in spades.

How could I not love him?

Of course, as time went on, I slowly realized that I was into blokes.

That sort of thing doesn’t hit you all at once, mind. Not like you wake up one Thursday morning, sit up in your bed, rub your eyes, look about and go, “Oh, well, yeah, I’m queer.” Doesn’t work that way. It’s more like how the pickle juice seeps into your cheese sandwich in your lunchbox.

Slow, methodical, but still impossible to ignore.

I suppose I should have known something was up when I found myself staring at all the bloke’s arses instead of the girl’s chests. One thing I’ll say of Gryffindor, they had the best set of arses in all of Hogwarts. Really.

Sometimes I think that’s why that manky old hat sorted me there. It _knew_.

Ron couldn’t possibly be more of a Gryffindor, though. He’d march straight into the fires of Hell if that’s what he thought he’d have to do for me. He’s always right there, by my side, in the thick of things. Has been from the very start. I mean, he followed me into a den of giant spiders…and if you know Ron, that’s the purest example of bravery I can think of. He was there in the Department of Mysteries, slinging hexes and being attacked by the brains.

That really screwed him up, and I don’t mean just the scars. So many of those things’ dark memories seeped into his mind. Took quite a bit of Legilimency to find them and pull them out. Bloody awful for him it was, but he kept going, allowing Snape to sort him out. He never gave up.

And here he is again, freezing his gorgeous arse off with me, in the wilds of by-Merlin Scotland.

Seems I have a thing for ginger hair, too.

So you can imagine what it was like to be completely immersed in a sea of red-haired Weasley brothers on a regular basis. Sometimes I actually felt like I would explode, what with all that gorgeous, bare, freckled skin down at the pond behind the Burrow.

But I always knew which one I truly wanted.

I nearly shit myself during the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and it wasn’t when I found out that Moody was a polyjuiced Barty junior, either. Oh, no. It was when they chained Ron to the bottom of the Black Lake. When that twinkly old bastard basically announced to the whole sodding world that Ron Weasley was what I would miss most. The ONE bloody thing.

Can’t get much plainer than that, can you?

That’s when all the whispering and gossip began. Everyone knew. I’ll bet even old Stan Shunpike heard about it. Yep, it was pretty clear to all that Harry Fucking Potter was a pouf, and that his best mate was what he’d miss most. I mean, add it up. Simple math, really.

Once the initial shock wore off, I found that it didn’t bother me all that much.

I did have an awful lot on my plate then, and by that point, I was pretty certain I fancied blokes in general, and Ron in particular. I just didn’t feature the idea of having that fact proclaimed to the entire readership of _The Daily Prophet_. Only a few made mention of it at school, though. The Slytherins, of course, and Hermione and Seamus, and a handful of others.

But Ron? Nothing. Not a word.

There’s got to be more to all this than just friendship, right? Does he have the slightest clue how much I’m in love with him? Can’t he tell how I feel just by the way I look at him?

I know he’s caught me countless times. No question about that. Difficult to hide a raging hard on when you’re starkers in the loo or shower after Quidditch.

Gods, but he’s fucking gorgeous.

Bill and Charlie have nothing on their little brother. Ron’s grown into the best of both of them, tall and muscled, and more than a bit furry. And that arse of his, and those long legs that go on for miles. I have to remind myself to keep breathing when he takes off his shirt.

But it’s more than just his body, truly. He’s just as stunning on the inside, if not more so.

So yeah, I’m hopeless.

I’d ask him outright, how he feels about me, but for some ridiculous reason I’m terrified that I’d screw things up. Sure, it sucks having him so close and not being able to hold him, to touch him, to kiss him. I can’t have him thinking I’m some sort of perv, can’t risk losing him.

He’s the everything.

But something has to change.

I can’t keep going on like this, that‘s a sure and certain fact. The whole thing is starting to become a distraction, and I can’t have that, especially now. I’d fucking hate myself even more if anyone was hurt or died because I was mooning over my best mate. It’s come close to happening, though, more times than I care to recall.

Most folks like to belittle him, saying he’s about as deep as a mud puddle.

They’re wrong. Dead wrong.

Anyone who’s ever played a game of Wizard’s Chess with him would find out just how sharp he is. Ron’s a strategic genius. His mind’s like a steel trap, and you couldn’t find a better partner in the midst of battle. But most everyone only sees his temper, his apparent jealousy and his emotions, which he wears right out there on his sleeve. And sometimes they get the best of him, clouding his reason.

Hell, he's not the only one, though, yeah?

Sure, he’s got that patented Weasley temper. Talk about the fire within. Sometimes he actually frightens me, because I can tell when he lets it loose, when he allows it to take over. I don’t know how many Death Eaters have met their fate at the end of Ron’s wand like that. It tears me up afterwards too, seeing him fall into himself, shaking and gasping for breath.

But all I can do it throw an arm about his shoulders, guide him back to wherever it is we’re camped, and talk, if that’s what he wants to do. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he talks about Hermione.

I know part of that rage of his is because of what happened to her. I’ve done the same thing myself.

I’m sure she’d be horrified that we were avenging her murder by dispatching Death Eaters left and right.

Well, if I needed another reason, that one works for me. Us.

Sorry, Herm.

So how does he really feel about me, then?

How long is a piece of string...

I know he’s fooled about.

I know he’s been with a few women, Lavender Brown being the first. But she’s the only one I know by name. Sometimes, when we’re in town for a few days, he goes off alone and doesn’t come back until morning. I can tell he’s shagged his brains out. He’s always got that look. I can see it beneath the surface there, almost as if it’s something he’s ashamed of. I prod him a bit, but he never really says what he did, where he went, nothing. I just get a shrug and that half-crooked smile of his, the one that fucking rips my heart out.

And I never say anything else. I never go further, I never let out that little speech, the one I’ve rehearsed and edited over and over for the past four years.

I don't say anything because I’m a coward.

I’m afraid of losing what little I have with him, I'm afraid of losing what I _might_ have with him if I ever pull my head from my arse and just speak up. Not to mention that I'm more than a bit wary as to what he might say about my past sexual history.

After sixth year, it was no secret I fancied shagging blokes. Sort of went wild there.

I even got used to Moaning Myrtle watching in whatever loo I happened to be in. And I was equal opportunity... didn't matter what house the bloke was in... a lustful gaze or a wan smile, and I was there. I probably went through every ginger or auburn-haired bloke in Hogwarts at the time. Sounds odd, but I'm sort of proud of that. And I've kept at it during the war, too.

Some people use pensieves or firewhiskey to smooth out the edges; I shag in dark alleys or cramped bathrooms or cheap hotel rooms. It helps. A little. I know that it’s not good for me, but what else do I have?

Not like I’m hurting anyone. I get off, the other bloke gets off, everybody wins.

Does Ron know any of this? How would he feel about me then?

I'd have to tell him, of course. Everything. Merlin, what would he want with me if he knew?

I’m fully aware that any mediwitch worth their wand would have more than a few fancy names for my psychosis.

I'm fucked up, I admit it. I grew up in a sodding broom closet, for Merlin’s sake.

But I function pretty well in spite of it. On the outside, anyway.

Mostly.

So here I sit, cross-legged, casting warming charms left and right, scribbling away in the journal that I've kept since the beginning of seventh year. Not sure if it helps or not, but at least it whiles away the time.

I can feel the ward drop outside the tent, so I know he's back.

I close the journal, quickly tossing it onto my rucksack and picking up a very dog-eared, four-month-old copy of _Quagmire's Quidditch Quarterly_. Not nearly enough pictures of shirtless, sweaty, muscley, fit types for my tastes, but I haven't seen a copy of _Quidditch Stars: Un-Robed!_ in nearly a year.

Besides, everyone reads _Triple Q_ for the articles, anyway.

The tent flaps rustle, and Ron bursts inside, all hunched over and decidedly drenched. Some renegade strands of hair are pasted to his forehead and cheeks, having come loose from the leather tie that holds together his long ponytail. He looks at me and smiles, and even though I'm loathe to admit it, I could swear I can feel it shoot right through me, straight to my groin.

For fuck's sake, how sappy is that?

"Hey," he rumbles, his deep baritone still somewhat hoarse from the cold he's barely over. "Not fit for man nor dementor out there." He shrugs out of his heavily patched brown corduroy jacket.

I swear magic is the only thing holding it together. I make a note to charm it clean in the morning... the thick fur about the collar is looking extremely dodgy.

"Scotland in early December," I reply, turning a page. "Good thing we're so close to the coast, or else we'd be up to our arses in snow by now."

He chuckles in response as he Engorges two sacks to their normal size. "What's the matter? Not into a little snow for the holidays?" He dumps out the contents of one sack, nearly all Muggle canned goods.

Great. More beans.

"Merry fucking Christmas," I sneer back. He knows I can take or leave the holidays. Nothing much to celebrate out here in the wilds, at any rate.

"Now, that's the spirit," Ron replies, smiling. He carefully pulls out a six pack of Muggle beer from the other sack, holding it up next to his cheek. "Maybe this'll help cheer you up." He waggles his eyebrows and tosses me a small, oddly shaped brown bottle.

"Duvel? Never heard of it."

"It's Belgian. Supposed to be bloody good stuff. Bloke in the pub in Torridon recommended it while I was waiting for Parkinson." He summons his bottle opener and pries off the cap, flipping the opener to me.

"Belgian, eh?" I answer warily, opening my own bottle. "Any port in a storm, I suppose." I take a healthy swallow. It's smooth and full-bodied, surprisingly so. "Not bad, Ronnie, not bad."

"Means devil," he says, finally emptying the sacks and banishing them.

"What does?" I ask.

"The beer's name. Flemish for devil. Cool, eh?" He hefts his bottle and smiles that smile again. "Too bad we don't have proper glasses. This stuff gets quite a head on it."

I smile feebly and swallow more of the Duvel.

Does he have any idea what he does to me? Like the way he smiles when he says the word 'head'. The way he's barely blushing, the faintest hint of pink beneath the riot of freckles on his cheeks.

He chuckles a bit, his free hand absently scratching the fresh scar running from temple to jaw along the left side of his face. _Sectumsempra_. Bloody lucky he didn't lose the eye...

I nod stupidly as he pulls out his wand and charms his clothes dry. His jumper rides up a bit, and I get a glimpse of a swatch of pale skin and a line of bright red hair. He finishes drying himself and drops his wand, noticing that I'm noticing. He smirks, but makes no attempt to pull his jumper down. His faded black jeans have about had it, holes at both knees and so threadbare it's hard to believe they're still in one piece.

He can wear them 'till doomsday as far as I'm concerned, as they hug every inch, every muscle and bulge with delicious tightness. Merlin, I really am a hopeless perv...

Ron hunkers down, equally dividing the supplies between our two rucksacks. He tosses me a bag of Nobby's crisps, which I tear into immediately. He then sips on his own beer, head to one side, the loose strands of ginger hair hanging free. The collar of his wool jumper is torn and the whole thing is coming apart at the seams. It's a bit too small for him, but he refuses to get rid of it. The last one his mum made for him, I think.

He's staring at me as I devour the crisps. Steak flavour. Bloody good. He sighs and winces.

"What?" I ask around a mouthful of crisps.

"Still a bit sore. Those bloody Inferi sure did a number on my back." He stretches and groans a bit more, sipping on his beer.

I drop _Triple Q_ and, for a brief moment, consider offering to massage his back. I quickly quash the idea, already feeling the beginnings of another hard-on. Before I can formulate some lame response, Ron sets his beer down.

"How about a little back rub?" he asks softly, his bright, blue eyes boring into me.

"Um," I reply, already shifting to stifle the pressure in my jeans.

He pauses a moment before lifting the jumper and pulling it over his head. He tosses it onto our rucksacks and sits there, cross-legged, his expression, for once, unreadable. My bottle of Duvel is frozen to my lips as my brain grinds to a halt; I'm surprised Ron didn't hear a gnashing of gears. I want to stare and look away at the same time.

My prurient side wins out, and I allow myself to wallow.

My eyes linger on his scarred forearms and biceps, the marks from the brains still red, angry and fresh looking. He never wears anything but long sleeved shirts anymore, though I don’t know why. The delicate, intricate traceries of scarring is actually quite lovely; smooth, gentle arcs intertwining amongst each other.

But then again, that’s just me.

I take in his impossibly broad shoulders… Merlin, sometimes it’s hard to believe how much he’s grown. He’s got scars there too, mostly little ones, tiny nips and bites amongst the freckles. There is one rather prominent pair of gashes that bisect his chest at an angle, from the far tip of his left collarbone down to just beneath his right nipple, visible beneath the whorls of ginger hair.

Lycan. Good thing he wasn’t bitten.

He’s rather nicely muscled, every bit as defined and well-formed as any bloke in _Triple Q_ or _Un-Robed_. And that’s what he should be doing, enjoying his passion, playing Quidditch and signing autographs for his adoring fans, and not tethered to me, out here, slogging about in the mud.

I remember to breathe, and take another swallow of beer.

He’s looking at me, and I keep telling myself that he can’t possibly know what I’m thinking. That even though it seems like I’ve been staring at him for hours, it’s most likely been a second or two. I hope.

He scoots over to me, beer in hand, presenting me with his broad back. I stare at the pattern of freckles on his right shoulder blade before setting down my beer and carefully lifting his ponytail and dropping it over his shoulder. He gasps slightly as my fingers make contact with his amazingly warm skin.

“Cold,” he says simply.

“Sorry.”

“No worries.”

I begin slowly, at the base of his neck, pressing my thumbs into the tight mounds of muscle and working them in loose circles. My fingers glide over his impossibly smooth skin… how can such a big bloke feel so good? I work my way across his shoulders, kneading, pressing, and I can feel him relaxing, his body releasing all the tensions as he pushes against my hands. His head lolls to one side and he moans, quietly, softly, but deeply. I lean forward, my hands now nearly flat on the wide expanse of his upper back, rubbing firmly at the knots just below the surface of his skin.

Thank Merlin his back is to me, as I’m fully hard now, my cock not at all happy to be trapped within the confines of my jeans. I shift about almost frantically, trying to release the pressure without interrupting the rhythm of my hands.

Ron scoots back a few more inches, his hips and arse now squarely between my open legs.

I keep working, moving slowly downward, my fingers following the freckled topography of his lower back. His head is bowed, and he’s making these contented little grunts as my fingers work their way still lower. I can smell him clearly, damp and earthy, with that odd but notable aroma of the cold just below it. But overriding all of it, is pure Ron: that fresh, clean scent that is his and his alone. My breath shudders in my chest as I work my hands down his sides, my thumbs pressing against his spine as I go.

I’m nearly finished, which is a good thing as I’m about ready to explode. Quite a sight that would be, wouldn’t it?

Gobs of the Boy Who Lived To Take It Up The Arse spattered all over the inside of the tent.

I chuckle shakily as Ron moans again, my hands nearly trembling as my fingers slip below the waistband of his jeans. I can see down the back of the denims, and my thumbs swirl about, teasing the top of the crack of his arse.

He starts ever so slightly but says nothing.

I’m suddenly aware of the wind rippling the canvas of the tent, and the telltale plinks of raindrops. I’ve had enough, and with a few firm pats to Ron’s back, I push away, quickly grabbing at my beer and my trusty copy of _Triple Q_.

“There ya go, mate. Put your jumper back on or you’ll catch your death.” _Or I’ll come in my jeans, and I’d rather not sit here in the spunk until the lights go out._

Ron looks over his shoulder at me as he reaches for his rucksack. “You alright?” he asks carefully, his brow furrowed. “You’ve been acting strangely all week.”

He roots about inside of the rucksack, finally extracting his most beloved and definitely ragged Chudley Cannons t-shirt.

I wave a hand and pull at the magazine to make sure it’s hiding my erection. “I’m fine, really. Maybe coming down with a touch of cold.” I smile, hoping my lie sounds believable enough.

Ron nods slightly, shrugging into his t-shirt and flopping down onto his bedroll. He lays on his side, his head propped up on one hand, his Duvel in the other. He studies me for quite some time before I realise I’m staring back.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

Shite. I’m a rotten liar sometimes. Most times.

“Yeah, I’m okay, you big git.” I swat at his head playfully, and he makes a half-hearted attempt to duck. I drain my beer, chucking the empty bottle at the tiny pile of trash in the corner. He sits up and opens me a fresh one, popping the cap and handing it to me. Our fingers touch as he passes it over, and I could swear that he lingers the slightest bit, not wanting to let go.

Bah! Bloody daft imaginings!

“So what did Parkinson have to say?” I ask brightly, happy to move to another subject.

“Nothing much, really,” Ron answers, averting his gaze to pick at the patchwork quilt covering his bedroll. “The Order’s managed to re-take Hogwarts. And most of Hogsmeade, too.” He looks up at me, his expression most definitely mournful

Fuck. More bad news…

“Still no word of George, Charlie, or Snape. Been nearly a month now. If something has happened to them, old Snakeface would sure as shite crow about it.” He finishes his beer, grabbing another and roughly prying off the cap.

He’s right on that one. Definitely not unusual for operatives to fall out of communication whilst on missions. True, a month is a rather long time, but Riddle wouldn’t have kept their demise to himself. Just not the bastard’s way. No, if any of them had been killed, we’d know about it. Rarely a day goes by that a bloody package doesn’t arrive at the Ministry. Sick pack of dickheads.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” I say, immediately aware of how patronising my tone is. “Snape and Charlie can take care of themselves, and George could probably talk Nagini into joining our side, if he put his mind to it.”

Ron chuckles mirthlessly, nodding. “You’re right, I know, but still.” He looks over at me, his eyes glistening.

Flipping harpies on a stick! I hate it when he does that. I barely restrain the urge to hurl myself at him, to throw my arms about him and hold him tight, assure him all will be well, not to worry, all this will be over soon and everyone will be fine.

But I don’t; I just sit there and nod stupidly. I’m such an arse.

He snuffles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “And there’s more,” he adds cryptically. “We’ve been ordered to Inverness the day after tomorrow.”

I sit up and lean forward. “Minerva?”

“Yeah. Must be something big. The parchment indicated that she’d be there waiting for us. I barely had time to read it twice before it disintegrated.”

I took a deep swallow of Duvel. “Another Horcrux hunt, you think?”

Ron shrugged. “Maybe. Probably. You know she never leaves Godric’s Hollow unless it’s something massively important.”

Yeah, it had to be another Horcrux. She’d never risk a journey like this for anything less. Wherever it was we were going, I sure as shite hope it’s warm.

“Well, wherever it is she’s sending us, I hope it’s warm there,” Ron says, kicking off his boots and sliding into his bedroll. He sips his beer, eyeing me intently, as if waiting for something.

I can‘t help but smile widely. “Yeah, cheers to that,” I reply, hefting my bottle. “No sense packing up in the middle of the night. We’ll break camp and head for Gairloch at first light.”

Ron smiles crookedly. “I should have known you’d want to go there. You like that place, eh?”

“It’s nice,” I answer, taking off my own boots and pulling off my shirt. I get into my own bedroll, and we both lie there, facing each other, hands propped up on elbows. I’d spent some time there just after the War started, my first mission with Remus. We can catch a bus in Gairloch that'll take us to Inverness.

And it _is_ nice, truly.

We finish our beers, talking absently about where we might be sent next.

We eventually lie down and charm out the lamp. The wind gusts rock our tent, the rain pummeling the canvas. A few minutes pass, and I know Ron's asleep, his low, soft snores more soothing to me than they have rights to be.

I stare into the darkness, wide awake, my mind overfull.

There’s nothing I’d like more than to crawl into Ron’s bedroll and curl up with him.

I can just imagine the feeling of his warm, smooth skin against mine, my fingers ghosting across that expansive chest.

My hand drifts down to my cock, once again fully hard. I release the button and zip of my denims, squirming out of them and pushing them aside. My fingers slip between the waistband of my under shorts and I grab my cock, swirling the pre-come about with my thumb. I make every effort to be as quiet as possible, even though I know Ron sleeps like the dead. I stroke myself firmly, my other hand fondling and squeezing my balls, biting my bottom lip as the heat builds deep within. It doesn’t take me long to reach orgasm, my come spurting between fisted fingers, and I clench my teeth to stifle my cries of pleasure. I swirl my fingers about in my quickly drying spunk, thinking of how much I wish it were Ron’s release, how it were Ron’s spent cock in my hands.

I murmur a cleansing charm, and finally sated, I feel myself slip into unconsciousness…

 

 

**_~~~~~ <*hp ~*~ rw*> ~~~~~ _ **

 

 

…Something’s got me, and I don’t know what it is. I’m pinned down, and can barely move. My eyes fly open as I struggle, and I blearily scrabble for my glasses with one hand and grab for my wand with the other.

That’s when I note that Ron has rolled over in his sleep, one arm thrown across my chest while the rest of him is half on and half off of my body.

My flailing about wakes him, and he blinks with a comic slowness. His eyes crack open the slightest bit, and he yawns widely, blinking a few more times before laying his head on my chest.

“Ron,” I say hoarsely. He’s a bloody big bloke, and quite heavy. I swear half of my body is numb. “Ron!”

He awakes with a start, his head jerking up. He glances about, sitting up quickly, wand in hand. “What? Whas’ up, ‘arry?” he says, his voice thick with sleep.

Gods, he’s so damned adorable when he’s half-awake, I can barely stand it.

“You were bloody well crushing me, that’s what,” I manage. What I don’t say is how I really don’t mind, and how I wish that he’d crawl right into my bedroll with me and hold me until the whole fucking mess was over with.

But I don’t, of course.

He yawns again, running his free hand through his totally tousled hair. “Oh, well, sorry ‘bout that,” he rasps, smiling weakly. “Dreamin’ again, I think.”

I sit up as well, my right arm and leg nothing but pins and needles. “It’s alright,” I say, shaking my arm out as the feeling slowly returns. “Same dream?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

Ron has nightmares.

He wakes me up sometimes, gasping, calling out my name, or Fred’s, or for his Mum. I’m pretty sure it’s the same dream, over and over again. I can’t imagine what he sees, and I don’t really want to know, so I don’t ask. Must be bloody awful. I mean, I know what happened to them, but how they’ve become entangled in the same dream is a mystery I don’t care to solve.

Sometimes I have to cast a _Muffliato_ so that our position isn’t given away. Most times I can calm him down by holding him until he falls asleep again. Even if he doesn’t wake me up, I can still tell he’s had the dream. He curls up into a little ball, hugging his pillows, or, the nearest body.

Like this morning.

Against my better judgment, I reach out and lay my hand on his shoulder. He cocks his head slightly, almost nuzzling my hand before he whirls about and throws his arms about me. He hugs me tightly, painfully, and he buries his head into the crook of my neck. His chest heaves in and out, and that’s when I hear the sobs. I return his embrace, my hands making small circles across the back of his sweat-dampened t-shirt.

Fuck. Bad dream, ultimate version. This happens from time to time. Not very often, though.

I just sit there, rocking back and forth, holding him while he cries himself out. Only thing to do.

After a few minutes, his sobs fade and his breathing returns to normal. He pulls away abruptly, using the hem of his t-shirt to wipe his eyes and nose. He snuffles and looks right at me, his eyes rimmed with red.

“Sorry.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks.” He gazes at me, and I again get the impression that he’s waiting for something from me.

I nod and he sniffles some more, and I feel like a complete bastard.

We go through our usual morning routine, casting cleansing and teeth cleaning charms and shavers. It’s absolutely freezing, and we both cast multiple warming charms to keep the chill at bay. We dress in silence, and while I heat the kettle, he takes care of the breakfast. I make the tea after the kettle boils, and it’s fantastic, hot and milky and sweet. Lucky we both like it that way. Unfortunately, he selects beans for breakfast, and I somehow manage to choke them down, both of us eating from the same can.

An hour later, we’re huddled in the back of an old lorry, some rather nappy looking sheep our travel companions as we bounce along down the narrow roads. We can’t risk Apparating, and it’s quicker than walking. We’re both glamoured, of course, not that the Muggle farmer would have recognised us anyway.

Ron’s unusually silent, barely speaking an entire sentence during the ride to Gairloch. Our benefactor drops us off at the end of Destitution Road, and continues on his way to Auchtercairn. We walk in the other direction, south along the road that parallels the wide beach. It’s cloudy, windy and cold, but at least it’s not raining.

We make the few miles walk in good time, reaching our destination just before half-ten.

Ron stands there and stares at the large, Victorian brick hotel for many long moments. I haven’t a clue what fascinates him so. Yeah, it’s a nice old building, but nothing really remarkable. All I know is that I’m bloody frozen to the bone, and he’s suddenly interested in architecture. He then turns about and gazes across the street to the loch, which is whipped into a frenzy of white caps from the wind. I follow his gaze, and I can barely make out the dim silhouette of the Isle Of Man in the distance, hidden in the bank of low, grey clouds.

“Hey, let’s go inside, yeah?” I say, and he nods and follows me across the small parking lot. They’ve decorated the place for Christmas, and I have to say, it looks right cheerful. We drop our glamours as we go inside the modest lobby, and there’s a blazing fire in the hearth and even a decorated tree in one corner. As we walk up to the desk, I conjure the appropriate Muggle currency and identification. Ron watches as I fill out the register, and I nearly laugh out loud as he sniggers at the names I’ve chosen for ourselves.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Dursley,” the young Muggle says warmly as she hands over the keys to our room. “Room 203, up the stairs there, second door on your right.” She smiles and returns to her paperback book as we trudge across the lobby and up the stairs.

“Which one am I?” Ron asks.

“Dudley,” I reply with a small laugh.

“Okay, _Vernon_ ,” he replies.

The room is quite nice, if rather small.

Good sized bed, wardrobe, tiny hearth, a pair of armchairs, a desk, and even a small telly. Private bath, and a view of the loch through the leaded windows. Not that I mind. I’d have been happy to sleep on one of the sofas in the lobby, truth be told. Anything’s better than a bedroll on frozen ground.

Ron immediately shrugs off his rucksack and jacket, and falls face first onto the bed, his boots hanging over the edge.

“Hey, why not have a lie down?” I say cheekily.

“Good idea,” is his muffled reply.

I barely get my coat off before he’s snoring. I kick off my boots and climb onto the soft mattress, arranging the pillows against the headboard so I can lean back comfortably. I click on the telly and slowly flip through the channels, and before I know it, I join Ron in sleep…

 


	2. Chapter 2

_…Ron’s splashing me and I’m not in the mood. I’m sitting on that log by the pond behind the Burrow, trying to assemble some sort of puzzle. I’d have had it done by now, but the bloody thing is all the same colour. Ron’s thigh deep in the murky water, and I notice he’s wearing my favourite denim cut-offs, which fit him like a second skin. I stare a moment, because something’s not right. We go back to Hogwarts tomorrow, to start our last year, but Ron’s covered in scars, more than the ones on his forearms from the brains. That’s definitely not right. And his hair’s too long, as well. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Fred & George off in the shallows tormenting Ginny, per usual, but something’s off about Fred too… he’s incredibly pale, and much thinner than George. I turn back to Ron, who’s stopped splashing about, to ask him what’s going on, and that’s when I notice the blood. His forearms are covered in it. He’s got tiny cuts all over his body, all bleeding, and as I watch, two large gashes swipe across his chest. I want to say something, to cry out, but I can’t seem to make a sound. Ron glances down at himself and smiles, holding out his arms, palm up, while another gash opens up on the left side of his face. The wind blows up then, and the sky darkens to near dusk in seconds. Ron steps closer as lightning and thunder crashes all around us. I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even close my eyes as he reaches out and touches the side of my face. His fingers are cold. He then turns and moves away. I see Molly standing on the shore, her hair wild, her head at an odd angle. Ron and Fred each take one of her hands, and only then does she smile at me, a wide, frightening smile, not at all pleasant. The storm picks up, the wind howling in my ears as they walk away. I scream for them to stop, sliding off the log and into the water, but somehow it’s now over my head and I sink down, lower and lower, into the depths, struggling to call Ron’s name as the black water fills my lungs…_

“Ron! Ron, wait, no!” I wail as my eyes snap open. I sit up, staring frantically about, trying to get my bearings. I see my glasses on the side table and slam them onto my face just as the door to the bathroom flies open. Ron bursts out, sopping wet, hair plastered to his forehead and face, a towel hastily clamped about his waist.

“Harry, what the fuck? What’s wrong?” He walks over to the bed, dripping wet, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He looks worried. I must have made quite a spectacle of myself. 

“Nothing, I’m fine,” I gasp, surprised that I’m not only hoarse, but out of breath as well. 

“Well, you didn’t sound fine,” Ron answers, and I can tell by his expression he’s not going to be satisfied with my usual flippant responses. He takes a deep breath and I avert my gaze, focusing on how low the towel is riding on his hips, how the gap in it rides right up the front of his left thigh. 

“Just a dream, that’s all,” I say, looking back up at him. He purses his lips and re-adjusts his towel. 

“Do ya want to talk about it?” 

Before I can answer, he sits on the bed, apparently ready for a long conversation. I look down again, mesmerized by the droplets of water on his freckled skin. Gods, he smells wonderful. And it’s not just the musk soap he uses. 

I shake my head. “Just a bit of a nightmare is all,” I say, looking back up. He’s staring at me, his eyes bright and alive. “You were, um, hurt, and I couldn’t help you,” I stammer, my mouth suddenly dry. “There was a lot of blood. And then you left.” 

He remains silent for a moment, digesting my comments. He nods slightly and stands up. “Well, I’m fine, no blood, see?” He holds out his free arm and glances down at himself. “Didn’t even cut myself shaving, either.” He pauses again as he looks up at me. “And I’m not going anywhere, yeah?” 

I take a deep breath and nod, my eyes drifting downward in spite of my best efforts to stop them. His towel has slipped down so low that I can see some wisps of his bright red pubic hair. And just below that, the noticeable bulge of his flaccid cock. I look back up, hoping he didn’t notice, and he’s smiling crookedly at me.

“I’ll finish up in there so you can have a shower,” he says, turning and striding back into the bathroom. “That’ll make you feel better.“ I get a brief glimpse of his bare arse as he drops his towel and closes the door. 

My head is pounding as I launch off the bed and stagger for my rucksack. I fish about a bit and pull out a warm bottle of Duvel. I summon my wand, cast a cooling charm and flip off the cap. I turn on the small radio embedded in the telly, twiddling the tiny dial until I find that Muggle Virgin Radio. Dudley always listened to that station, and while some of the stuff they play is pure crap, most of it’s bang on. I plop down in one of the armchairs and swallow a few gulps of beer. 

Some old song from Oasis is playing… oh yeah, that one about a champagne supernova. Great tune.

I really can’t go on like this. 

Being so close to Ron, and not being able to touch him, to tell him how I feel… it’s tearing me apart. And to make matters worse, he’s flashing those grins and smiles of his, and what the fuck do they mean? But if I tell him what I want to tell him, then I’ve got to say everything, even the things I don’t want to, the things that he’ll probably hate me for. 

With him or without him, which is it to be? 

Maybe I need some space, some time apart from him. I’d hate every fucking minute of it, but perhaps that’s the answer. That sort of separation might just help clear the haze in my head. I’ll have to pull Minerva aside when we get to Inverness and ask her to separate us, at least for a little while. If I'm really convincing, she'll go for it. I rarely ask her for anything, so there's that, too. 

I finish the beer by the time Ron exits the bathroom again. He’s barefoot, wearing nothing but his best jeans as he towels his hair dry. He looks at me and then the empty Duvel bottle on the floor.

“Feel better?”

I shrug and nod at the same time. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“All yours,” he says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “I even saved you some hot water.”

I grab my rucksack and make to push past him. He puts out an arm, stopping me.

“Hey, mate, you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

I stare straight ahead, his scarred forearm right under my chin.

“I know.” I press ahead gently, but he keeps his arm there.

“Harry.”

“Yeah?” I look up at him, and I’m still surprised at how tall he is. Should be used to it by now. “What, Ron, what?”

He steps in front of me and places both hands on my shoulders. I stare at the center of his chest, right where his collarbones meet. His chest hair is the brightest red I’ve ever seen. 

“I mean it,” he says, lowering his voice so that it nearly rumbles. “I want you to talk to me, okay?”

I nod, feeling rather faint, his wonderful Ron-scent mingled with the fresh, soapy shower aroma nearly too much to bear. “I will, honest, just not now, okay? I’d really just like to have a shower.” I look to the side and study the delicate pattern of scars on his left forearm. I pause a moment and press forward again, and he releases me. I dart into the bathroom without looking back, slamming and locking the door, falling against it in a panting heap. 

Bloody hell, maybe I do need to see a mediwitch. All these years I’ve wanted nothing more than to talk to Ron, and now, I’m terrified of it. 

Fuck all!

I take a long shower, remaining under the spray until the water starts to cool. It feels heavenly, and after a week in a tent with nothing but cleansing charms, I never want to get out. I de-fog the mirror as I towel myself off, staring at my reflection and I’m only partly surprised when the Muggle mirror doesn’t offer commentary of some sort. 

“Shite,” I say to myself, dragging a hand through my tangled mess of hair. I’m in desperate need of a cut, but there’s nothing for it right now. It’s just long enough to be wild, but not quite long enough to tie back, like Ron’s. I can never seem to get past this awkward stage. 

I scratch at the galleon-sized scar just above my left nipple, sighing deeply. I’m not that much to look at, really. Quite scrawny, some might say. Probably comes from living on canned beans most of the time. I consider casting a shaver, but decide to leave the stubble. I like it, sort of rakish, maybe. I dress quickly, putting on my cleanest jeans and a not-so-ragged Gryffindor jumper. I drag a comb through my hair for a few minutes, and I swear it doesn’t look any better for it. 

Bollocks.

Ron’s sitting in one of the armchairs, skimming through our trusty copy of _Triple Q_ , a bottle of beer on the table next to him. He looks up and smiles.

“Hey. Thought you’d gone down the drain.”

I drop my rucksack on the bed. Fuck, I wish he’d stop smiling at me like that!

“Felt bloody good. Didn’t want to get out,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Don’t know when we’ll have the opportunity again.”

Ron nods and stands up. “Too right, that.” He, too, shoves his hands in his pockets, and we stand there like that, staring at each other for a long moment.

“Well, I’m hungry,” I say, studying the pattern of the carpet. “You?”

“Always,” he replies.

“Great,” I say, grabbing my jacket and turning for the door. “There’s a nice pub just up the road. Best fish and chips I’ve had.” I don’t wait for Ron to answer before I pull open the door and step into the hallway. I glance over my shoulder, and he’s still standing there, by the chair. I jerk my head down the hall, and he follows, grabbing his jacket and closing the door behind him. 

We walk side by side, in silence, through and out of the lobby, across the parking lot, and along the berm of the road to the pub. I haven’t any idea what time it is, and I nearly cast a _Tempus_ before I remember where we are. There are a few cars in the spaces alongside the front of the pub, and Ron steps in front of me to open the door. I roll my eyes and step inside, opening the inner door for him.

The Woman in White is your standard, average pub, small, low ceiling, bar spanning one wall, booths on the other, a scattering of small tables here and there. There's a pair of dart boards, and some electronic video game. We walk up to the bar, and the barman nods to the booths. I choose the one farthest toward the back, right near the rear entrance and the lavatories. I take the side facing the front, with the best view of the entire pub. For a split second, I think that Ron’s going to slide in next to me; he doesn’t, squeezing himself into the opposite bench. There’s a pair of tellys on, both tuned to some Muggle football match, and a foosball table just a few feet from our table. 

“Nice,” Ron says, nodding and glancing over his shoulder at the handful of patrons scattered about. He looks back to me, big hands clasped on the heavily lacquered table top. “I meant what I said back there,” he says.

“I know,” I reply, grateful when I see the waitress approaching.

“Harry, I know there’s something off,” Ron begins, but he’s cut off before he can continue.

“Hullo, gents, M’name’s Aria, and I’ll be serving ya this evening’. What’s yer pleasure?” 

Ron starts and we both look up at Aria. 

“Beer,” we say simultaneously.

Aria chuckles. “Well, I figger’d that. Ya want ter tell me what ya want, or willya be lettin’ me chose for ya?”

We both laugh, and Aria cocks her head to one side and smirks. 

“Pitcher of Guinness,” Ron says.

“And two shots of Oban, please,” I add, satisfied when I see Aria’s eyebrows rise up into her auburn fringe. 

“Getting’ right to it, eh?” she says with a snort. “Will ya be eatin’ tonight, or shall I just be ready to wheel ya out later?”

“Shite,” I exclaim, and Ron sniggers into his hand. “Oh, yeah, I’ll be having some of your fish and chips, please,” I say, and Ron nods enthusiastically. 

“Me too,” he says sheepishly.

“Better make his a double order, he’s a growing lad,” I say around a smile.

Aria nods and bustles away to the bar. 

We sit in silence, both of our gazes drawn to the telly and the football match in progress. I’m more than familiar with how the game is played, so I explain it to Ron as our drinks arrive. We down the Oban in a flash, quickly working through the first pitcher of beer as we get into the game. Our food arrives and I order another pitcher. 

Football’s certainly not Quidditch, but I sort of get into it anyway. 

The fish and chips are excellent, and Ron devours his in record time. 

Aria clears away the dishes, and we sip our beers a bit more slowly. 

I can sense Ron’s bursting to say something, but for some reason, he’s biding his time. Probably needs to see if there’s a bit of courage at the bottom of his glass. 

Hell, I’ve done the same thing myself. 

The game on telly has ended, and the pub is now rather crowded, a mix of locals and some obvious tourists. 

There are even a trio of yanks at the bar, two blokes and a gal, animatedly conversing with the patrons on either side of them. The bird's pale and slim with magenta hair, for Merlin's sakes, and her mates couldn't be more disparate, one short and stocky with shoulder-length, blond hair and the other tall, bald and bespectacled, wearing absurdly tight jeans and clunky boots. I watch them awhile, oddly fascinated by the way they're always smiling or touching one another, each keenly aware of the other two at any given moment. 

It strikes me then that somehow, someway, they've figured things out, and no matter how strange or non-traditional their bond is, it's theirs, and they've embraced it.

Magenta throws her head back and laughs at some clearly amusing anecdote, her gaze locking onto mine. She smiles broadly at me, hefting her wine glass in a silent toast.

I return the gesture, realising I’m feeling just the slightest bit buzzed, all warm and content, and I know if I keep going, I’ll cross over that fine line into sloppiness. At the moment, I don’t know which I want to do. 

I’ve also made note of a rather attractive fellow seated at our end of the bar. Tall, thin, flaxen hair touching the collar of his Muggle football jersey. Probably our age, perhaps a bit older. And yeah, he’s got a nice arse. Our gazes meet more than a few times, and I’d know that expression a mile away. 

_Flaxen’s mine if I want him…_

Ron's scooted against the wall and put his long legs up on the bench. He’s watching the telly raptly, his mouth slightly agape at the music video things on the screen. Some blonde bird wearing what looks like purple cling wrap is bouncing up and down, her boobs nearly ready to fall out. 

“There’s one for you,” I say.

Ron pulls a face and shakes his head. “No, thanks. Not for me.”

“Don’t like blondes, then?”

He stares right at me. “Dark hair does it,” he says evenly. 

The intensity of his gaze is a bit surprising. He’s holding his alcohol better than I’d thought. Course, he's a far sight bigger than I am. “She’s got nice tits,” I say, scarcely believing I’m saying the words. 

Ron takes another sip of his Guinness. “If you’re into that sort of thing.”

“And you’re not?” I snap back, swallowing the last of my beer. I wave to Aria for another pitcher.

“No, I’m not,” Ron says, draining his glass and setting it on the table. 

I swallow hard and plaster on a fake smile. Ron remains silent, impassive. I look down first. “Ah, well, I get it. Smaller is better, eh? What was it Seamus would say? More than a handful…”

Ron cuts me off with a firm slam of his fist on the table. “Are you done fooling about?” he asks, and even in the dim light of the pub, I can see the colour on his cheeks.

I sit back as Aria plunks down our fresh pitcher and picks up the empty. She casts a quizzical glance in my direction before sauntering away. I fill our glasses, picking up mine and taking a deep swallow. I set my glass down and stare at the nearly black liquid. 

I look up as the American gal laughs loudly again, her mates clutching at their sides. 

“Go ahead, Ron,” I say quietly. 

He pauses a long moment, turning his glass about on the table. “I’m not into women, Harry.”

“Oh.” 

“I fancy men.” He takes a long pull on his Guinness. 

Well, that simplifies things a great deal. Sort of. 

“I see,” I reply, as if he’d just told me he prefers boxers to y-fronts.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“What to you want me to say?”

He throws up his arms and lets them drop, shaking his head. “I dunno. Something. Anything. I thought you’d be pleased.”

Oh, great bleeding Circe! Why can’t anything ever be easy between us? 

I guzzle down more of my beer, my definitely muzzy brain aswirl. Great, great, Ron’s a pouf, too. Brilliant. So what does he want from me? A pat on the back? An atta boy? Good on you, mate, welcome to the club? Is he after pointers or something? 

He can’t possibly want me, or else he’d have said something years ago. 

Right? 

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

He picks at the table top. “I just wanted to say that I’m queer, too. So you’d know.”

“Thanks,” I reply, my stomach lurching about like an angry skrewt. 

Ron mumbles something, but I can’t quite hear it. 

I look over to the bar, and Flaxen is staring right at me. He’s turned on his stool, one leg on the floor, his hand planted nearly right on top of his delectably sizeable bulge. I quickly glance at Ron, and he’s staring down the bar at the three Americans, who are laughing wildly again. When I look back to Flaxen, he’s walking right by me, his pale, grey eyes ablaze. He ever so slightly inclines his head toward the lavs and keeps on going. 

I drain my glass of beer and take a deep breath. 

Yeah. 

I need to get up and stretch. 

I need to clear my head a bit to digest what Ron’s just thrown at me. And I know the perfect little diversion. 

“Be right back,” I say, hoisting myself up with both arms and sliding out of our booth. 

Ron nods and fills his glass and I stumble away for the lav. 

I’m feeling right good, and I know I’ll be needing a bit of Madame Ciara’s Hangover Draught in the morning. I push through the door marked ‘Gents’, making a hard left and backing against the wall. Flaxen is washing his hands at the sink. He looks up and catches my reflection in the mirror. He smiles, and I know we’re on. 

I step up behind him, pressing my hardening cock into his arse, my hands wrapping around his hips and rubbing his own firming erection. He whirls about, shoving me against a wall and crashing our lips together. He’s pretty rough, and I can taste what he’s been drinking: something licorice flavoured, probably Ouzo or Sambuca. He pulls at the fly of my jeans, quickly yanking them open and shoving his hand into my under shorts. He pulls on my cock mercilessly, and I groan into his mouth, my hands sliding down the back of his jeans to massage his fuzzy arse. 

He breaks away, breathing heavily, his lips red and puffy. Panting, he pushes me into the lone stall. He drops to his knees and yanks my jeans and shorts down, his mouth closing around my cock. I brace my self on the paper holder as he goes to work. 

He's not bad, just a little careless with the—

"Teeth!" I hiss, but he continues on as if I hadn't said a word. There's not much I can do in this position, so I close my eyes and let my mind wander. Flaxen's tongue feels wonderful, and he's certainly got that move down. I buck a bit, a soft moan escaping my lips as I feel that heat build deep in my groin. Another minute or so, and I can go back out there and face him. Suddenly, I snap my eyes open and look out into the lav. 

"Ron." 

Of course he's there, why on earth did I think that he wouldn't follow me? 

He stands there, silent, his expression blank, his eyes going from an oblivious Flaxen to me and back again. 

"Brilliant," he says and turns on a heel and stalks away. 

I shove Flaxen's head away as carefully as I can.

"Hey," he says as I zip and button my jeans.

"Sorry, thanks," I reply, hurrying out of the lav. Ron's already nearly out the front door. I dig in my pockets and leave a wad of conjured Muggle cash on the bar. I run after him, bursting through the set of doors and into the frigid air outside. 

And it's snowing. Fuck, I hate snow. 

"Ron!" I call out, "Wait!"

He waves his arms and keeps going. "For what? I've got my answer."

"What the fuck was the question?" I yell back, and he stops and turns about, his face contorted in anger. 

"It's pretty bloody clear that you don't want me! Fuck, Harry!"

I stomp right up to him. "How in the Seven Hells do you know that? You've never asked me!"

"You didn't give me the chance! I was going to, but then you go off for a quick blow-job in the lav!"

I laugh even though I know it will most likely make him angrier. "I didn't give you a chance? Are you serious? For fuck's sake Ron, we've been mates forever! You've known I was queer since the Tournament! We've spent almost every waking moment together for nearly a decade, and you can't fucking tell how I feel about you?" I pound my open palms against my temples. "You've never said a word, Ron, not one, that would have led me to think that you were queer, let alone that you fancied me. Shite!"

I stare at him, my breath making big puffs of mist in the chill air. "Well? What are you waiting for? Some Death Eaters to swoop down on us and end it all? C'mon, Weasley, let's hear it!"

"Forget it," he says, and I grab his arm as he turns to leave. "Let me go, Harry, I'm warning you."

I grip his arm harder. "What's wrong? Changed your mind about me?" I point back toward the pub. "Because of that?"

"Yeah," he nods. "You don't need me. Go on back to your trick." He yanks his arm away, and I lose my balance, falling flat on my arse. He takes a few steps toward the hotel and stops, looking at me over his shoulder. 

"You don't get it, do you?" I say, hugging my knees to my chest. "You're acting like we're together, like some married couple! What about Lavender? And all the other birds you've shagged? How could you do that if you really wanted me?"

"It's not the same," he says. "That was before I knew I was like you."

"Right. Convenient, that. But I’m bloody well certain you've shagged more than your fair share after that. Blokes, I'd wager. Tell me I'm wrong."

Ron walks toward me, head bowed. "You're not. I've been with men. A few. But never in a lav."

I twirl my hand. "Not a lot of sodding difference, if you ask me. Didn't mean to offend your delicate sensibilities! Your loss, I'd say."

"I thought we were best mates!" he says, "You and me."

"We are. Friends, Ron. Not lovers."

He walks toward me, his index finger poking the center of his chest. "But I _do_ love you, Harry! I always have."

I shake my head an stand up, brushing the snow and gravel from my jeans. "Right, Ron, you love me like a friend, like a brother. That's not the same. It's not enough, not anymore."

I make to shove past him, and it's his turn to grab my arm. "Now you're the one who doesn't understand. I love you, Harry. I'm bloody sorry it took me so long to tell you. I just wasn't sure about myself, what I was. But I was always pretty certain that I wanted you."

My head is pounding and I massage my temples with both hands. "Well, that makes us even, then. I've always wanted you, too, but I was too much of a coward to say it. So in the interests of closure, here goes: I love you, Ron, I always have. I've never wanted anyone more than I wanted you, but, as you can tell, I'm rather fucked up. I should have said something years ago, but I didn't. I was afraid of losing you. And I've dragged you into this sodding war, and you're out here, sleeping in tents and freezing and lurking about and dong all sorts of horrible things. I'm sorry I pulled you down with me. And all those scars...all my fault." I can tell he wants to say something, but I keep ploughing ahead. "So instead of dealing with the problems, I shagged everything in sight. Not the best or brightest of plans, but it more or less kept me sane, and very nearly worked, except for this conclusion." I shake my head. "Funny, really."

"What is?"

"My greatest fear has always been that you'd disapprove of me. That I'd lose you if you found out the truth about me. But I lost you anyway." I hold my arms out wide. "Brilliant, isn't it?"

Ron takes a step closer. "Why'd you do it?" 

"What, that bloke in there?"

"No, not just him. All of them. Why, Harry?"

Merlin, when the Universe decides to be a bitch, she turns it on full bore. Of all the questions he had to ask, he asks that one now, when I'm pissed, angry, and freezing. 

Fuck.

"I needed them," I say, shrugging. "I needed to feel good. They helped me forget things, for a little while."

"And you couldn't ask me? I couldn't help you do that?"

"I've already told you, I didn't know for sure about you, I didn't want to risk losing you if you weren't queer. I just can't... I couldn't bear the thought of you hating me, or even disliking me. You're the only mate I've ever really had." I turn and walk away in the snow, looking both ways before I cross the road. I step over the low guardrail, casting a series of warming charms as I sit down. 

A moment later Ron steps over the rail and sits beside me. 

"What are you still doing here?"

"You want me to go?"

"No."

"Alright then."

It's freezing, and I'm struggling to keep my teeth from chattering. But I'll be damned if I'll be the first one to get up and leave. 

"Harry, I don't hate you. I can't even imagine how that would ever happen. And I don't disapprove of you, either. You drive me up a wall sometimes, but I'm sure I do the same thing to you."

I chuckle a bit, even though I don't want to. "Well, yeah, you do get a bit cranky at times, but I don't mind. We're mates. That's part of the package."

He clears his throat and shifts a bit closer to me. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?" 

He snuffles and at this moment I want nothing more than to be far away from all of it, someplace where no one knows us, where we can just be ourselves. Someplace warm and quiet. Anyplace but here. I can feel his gaze on me and I look over at him, his expression serious but not at all hard.

"There's one thing you need to understand," he says. "I'm your best mate, and wherever you go, I'm there. I've got your back, and I always will. But this War, this fucking mess we're all slogging through... I'm here because I want to be. Because I _need_ to be." He pauses for a moment and I scoot a bit closer as he continues. "I don't like it, any of it, and I'm doing things I'd never imagined in my worst nightmares. I'll have to deal with it at some point; we all will. But there's no other choice. We've got to fight for what we believe in. To try to save the future. And nothing like that comes for free. I've got to believe that some good will come of all this, something wonderful and better, so that all the ones we've lost won't have been taken in vain. So, don't ever think that I'm here just because of you, okay?"

I nod, feeling the the lumps rise up in my throat. That's my Ronnie, alright. Fuck, how could I have ever thought that I could live without him? I try to compose myself enough to make a coherent reply, but he speaks first. 

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you how I felt. I should have, but I didn't."

"No worries. I should have done the same."

"And about those other blokes," he begins, but I cut him off.

"Ron, we could sit here trading apologies until we're frozen solid."

He chuckles, and I grin as he stands up. "Yeah, you're right there. Um, how about we head back to the hotel? A bit warmer, yeah?"

I throw my legs over the rail, and we cross the street and make our way back to the hotel. The snow is falling harder; there's nearly an inch on the ground already. 

"Ron, you had to know that I fancied you, right?" 

"Well, not really. I knew you were fooling about with other blokes at Hogwarts, and back then I just assumed you either didn't really fancy me, or that I wasn't an option, because I was more like a brother or something."

Shite. I hadn't even thought of that. Makes perfect sense. 

Bollocks! 

"Yeah, I can see that," is all I can manage. 

"And you really didn't have a clue how I felt about you? I mean, in _that_ way?" he says.

"No, not at all. You play your cards rather close to the vest, mate. I did begin to get some different signals from you lately, though."

Ron laughs, and I feel a bit of the weight on my shoulders melt away. Only a bit, though. "I could say the same about you."

"What do you mean?" I ask as we cross the parking lot of the Gairloch. 

Ron stops and turns toward me, his ruddy cheeks reflected in the light of the nearby street lamp. "Well, you moan a lot when you wank."

"I'm sorry?"

He shrugs. "You moan and groan a lot when you wank. I mean, you're rather quiet, but you'd never have made it, making that much racket, growing up in my house."

I feel the blush rising out of my collar and up my neck. "You heard me?" My stomach lurches a bit. He just nods, and there's my smile again. 

Bloody hell. This just might work out after all.

"Yeah, sorta," he says, barely suppressing a chuckle. "Kinda hot, too, all deep and throaty, you are. And I love it when you growl my name right before you come." He blinks repeatedly, looking quite horrified. "I mean, I imagine that's what happens when you come... I mean... oh, bugger!"

The ground tilts alarmingly, and it isn't because of the Guinness. I shake my head, and I'm certain the stupidest grin in the history of the wizarding world is now covering my face. 

"You sneaky bastard," I say, stepping closer to him. "How long have you been eavesdropping on me?"

He pulls a face and stares up into the dark sky. "I'm not entirely certain it could be considered eavesdropping if we're bedded down in the same tent or mouldy hotel room—"

"How long!?" I repeat, clamping my hand on his jacket sleeve and shaking him gently.

"Um, well, Sri Lanka, I'd say." 

We were in Sri Lanka nearly—

"A year? Bloody hell, Ron, you've been listening to me wank for over a year?”

He grins widely and shrugs. "Yeah. Sorry. I take it you never heard me, then?"

"Don't tell me—"

He nods some more. "We Weasleys are masters of stealth wanking. Sorry, mate."

I can't help but throw myself at him, wrapping my arms about his waist and burying my head against his chest. "So you heard me moaning your name when I wanked, but still weren't sure how I felt?"

He shifts about a bit. "Well, I was pretty sure you were saying my name, but sometimes it was hard to tell. Coulda been Jon or Don, or maybe there was another Ron that you fancied." I feel his arms close about me and hold me tight. 

" _Another_ Ron?" I say, nearly laughing out loud. "Merlin."

"Well," he stammers, "that's what I thought. I'm not the straightest wand in the box, you know."

I squeeze him tight enough to make him wince. "Hey, enough of that shite, mate. Don't say that. You're sharper than you give yourself credit for."

"Still, could of sorted this out a lot sooner if—"

I cut him off. "Yeah, yeah, if, what, maybe. No worries, Ron, it's all water under the bridge now."

We stand there, hugging in the snow, until we hear a car drive up, the head lights washing across the snow-covered parking lot. 

"Let's go in," he says. 

I nod and he leads the way into the hotel. 

The desk clerk acknowledges us as we mount the stairs, and once we're out of her view, I find I can't keep my hands off of him. I'm sliding my hands up and under his jumper as he fumbles for the room keys. We stumble through the door, and I'm on him in an instant, crashing my lips to his. I push my tongue past his lips while I fumble with the fly of his jeans. He pushes me away gently but firmly, his hand planted in the center of my chest.

"Merlin's Balls, let's at least get the door closed," he says, his voice suddenly deep and heavy.

I step back and slam the door, flipping on the lights and throwing the Muggle locks. I shrug out of my jacket, letting it fall to the floor. "Here, let me," I say, helping Ron out of his coat and tossing it to join mine. I run my hands over the front of his jumper, revelling in the wonderful feeling of his muscled chest beneath it. "Gods, Ron," I breathe, leaning up for another kiss. 

I feel his big hands slide under my jumper and push it up. I step back and let him pull it over my head, and I do the same for him. I'm fully hard by now, and so is Ron, and I'm not at all sure where I want to touch him first: his thick, denim-clad erection, his arse, his nicely furred, slightly rounded belly, his gorgeous, broad chest. I decide to caress and touch him everywhere at once, and my hands are all over him as we kiss again.

This time, his tongue invades my mouth, and the lingering flavour of fish and Guinness and Oban is more delicious than I'd have thought. He presses his groin into me, and I respond in kind, each of us exchanging tiny moans and grunts of pleasure into the joined cavern of our mouths. He walks us backward, and it's difficult to maintain complete body contact without toppling over. We reach the bed, and Ron pulls away, sitting down heavily and holding me firmly by my hips. He begins at my collarbone, licking and laving his way down across my chest, stopping briefly to tease a nipple. All the while, his one hand is massaging my arse while the other fumbles with my jeans, finally releasing the zip and pushing them down. They take my under shorts with them, and my cock bobs free.

He pushes my jeans down to my knees, continuing to lick and nibble his way down my stomach as one hand firmly strokes my shaft. I dig my fingers into his hair, cursing the leather tie holding it into the pony tail. I move my hands down to his broad shoulders just as his tongue swipes at the head of my cock.

"Fuck, Ron," I gasp, and he looks up and just grins wickedly. Sweet Circe, but the boy's a natural.

Ron plunges back down onto my cock, sucking and pulling with abandon. I slowly begin to thrust into his mouth, unsure if he'll take to it or not. He does, grabbing my arse with both hands and pumping my hips in and out rather forcefully. I hold on to his shoulders for dear life, almost forgetting that I don't want to come, not just yet...

"Ron, gonna come, not yet, _not yet!_ " I push away and he releases me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"Oh, no, you're not coming yet," Ron growls, standing up and roughly pulling open his jeans and shoving them down. I reach over and attempt to assist.

So, I'm trying to kick off my boots, get rid of my jeans and shorts, and undress Ron all at the same time. Needless to say, I fail, falling face first to the floor. "Shite, Ron, don't take your pants off!" I wail. I sit up, and he's standing there, one boot off, one leg pulled out of his jeans. 

"Huh?" he says, and then he starts chuckling. He flops down on the bed, and continues to pull off his jeans and his remaining boot. 

I've managed to extract myself from my tangle of clothing, and I'm up and on Ron again, knocking him flat to the mattress and pressing my body into his as if I could melt into it. The feeling of supple muscle and soft hair against my skin is so fucking incredible that I decide then and there that I never want to pull away. "Gods, you're fucking amazing," I pant, bearing down on one of his nipples as if I were vampire finding a jugular. I bite down rather hard, and Ron yelps and bucks my mouth right off of him.

"Shite, Harry, I’ve enough scars," he says rather breathlessly.

I growl and lick my way up his chest while I press my erection against his, still trapped in his Muggle boxer briefs. I don't know what they call that fabric they're made of, but it feels bloody good, all smooth and slick and silky. Ron moans and cups my arse again, and I lave my way up his neck. I leave a trail of kisses along the scar on the left side of his face, and after one chaste kiss to the lips, I push up and scoot down, hooking my fingers under the waistband of his briefs and pulling them down. 

Ron hefts his hips obligingly, and I'm embarrassed at the moan I make when his cock is finally freed. I stare for an instant, sighing at the thickness of it, how gloriously heavy it looks, more than a bit unbelieving that I can finally, truly have him, and that he’s mine. I hastily shove his briefs down his legs, and Ron kicks them off.

They probably don't have time to hit the carpet before I take his length into my mouth. He gasps and writhes about as I swirl my tongue about the sensitive head, the sourbitter flavour of his pre-come seeping into my tongue. I go down all the way on him, and he fills my mouth nearly fully. I begin working up and down, establishing a smooth rhythm, carefully dragging my teeth along the underside of his cock with each upstroke. 

Ron's whimpering now, his hands clutching at the quilt, his hips quivering up and down and side to side. I continue working his cock and I shove one of my hands under his arse, marvelling at how it can be so full, smooth and furry all at the same time. Ron lifts his left leg, bending it at the knee slightly, bringing it up to rub against my balls and the base of my cock.

Ron grunts loudly, and I feel his hand press against my forehead.

"Enough! Shite, mate, _shite!_ " 

I release him, and his prick slaps against his abdomen with a satisfying _thwack_. I chuckle deviously and slide my way back up his body, both of us panting and sweaty. We kiss again, and he wraps his arms about me and hugs me firmly for a moment before flipping us over and covering my body with his. He holds himself up on his arms, our groins and lower bodies still pressed together. 

"Hell, Harry," he murmurs. 

"Yeah, I know," I say, and wiggle myself up the mattress a bit. 

He lowers himself down, our chests touch again, and I grind my erection into his. He responds with another of his growls, nibbling at my upper neck while I slide upward some more, and Ron's cock slips beside and under my balls. I spread my legs apart slightly, and his cock nudges the crack of my arse. 

Ron lifts his head and stares at me and I nod. "Are you sure?" he asks softly.

"Yeah, do it, _you berk_ ," I gasp out, wriggling my hips and pressing my arse into his erection. 

Ron nods slightly, murmuring a wandless charm, and I feel an instant slickness as he nudges the head of his prick against me. I adjust my position and he finds my entrance, quickly pushing into me. I gasp in spite of myself, instantly willing my muscles to relax against the welcome intrusion; he waits exactly the right amount of time before continuing. I do what I can to improve his access, and then he's fully inside, filling me, and I never want him to leave me. He pauses a moment, thrusting slowly, smoothly increasing his speed. He lifts his upper body up, his face a mask of concentration. I stare at him as he pumps in and out of me, my hands reaching up and caressing his shoulders and neck. 

I realise then that I don't ever want to be parted from him, never want to be separate from him again. I want to fucking merge right into him and stay there forever. His thrusts become more erratic, less smooth. 

"Kiss me, Ron," I yelp, and he complies, our lips crashing together as his entire body tenses. Ron grunts into my mouth as his release fills me, and I know he's going to pull away and I clench myself around him, trying to keep him inside. He breaks our kiss, gasping, and pulls out with a groan, flopping down on top of me, his softening, spunk-slicked cock sliding next to mine. 

"Bloody hell," he whimpers as I start to grind my hips into his. I clamp my hands on his arse, rubbing my neglected cock against his wonderfully slick length. He catches on and rocks into me as well, and a moment later I come, coating our bellies in my release. 

Ron kisses me again, and slides off of me. We both turn on our sides, a tangle of arms and legs.

"So," Ron says, "was I better than stall boy?"

"Arse."

"Well? I need feedback if I'm to improve," he says cheekily.

I card my fingers through his tousled strands of hair. "You’re brilliant,” I whisper. “Oh, yeah, most definitely," I say, kissing him again. He lays his head on his arm, and I pull his other one across my chest, ghosting my fingers across his beautiful scars. 

"Gods, Ron, I'm so sorry—"

He shushes me instantly. "Enough with the apologies. We're both prats, agreed?"

I nod, horrified as I feel the prick of tears. I stretch up and turn off the lamp. We shift about, casting cleansing charms as we wriggle under the blankets. Ron lays on his back, and I snuggle up against him, his arm about me, my arm and head across his chest. 

"Harry," he says, his voice thick.

"Yeah, me too," I answer, tears slowly trailing down my cheeks.

A few minutes later, Ron's snoring, and a minute after that, I join him.

**_~~~~~ ~~~~~_ **

I shift about in my seat, adjusting my belt and glancing out the window. It’s sleeting, and the frozen balls of precipitation are pinging against the thick glass rather forcefully. We’ve been sitting on the runway for some time now, the weather obviously delaying our take-off. Ron clutches at my left knee again. Hard.

“Just relax,” I say. “We’ll be in the air in no time.”

He looks over at me, his face a mask of worry. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he replies. “Insane idea, this was.”

I can barely contain my laughter. “Mate, there’s nothing to it. This happens thousands of times a day. Safer than Quidditch,” I offer, knowing it'll do no good. 

He rolls his eyes and sighs. 

Gods, he’s too bloody adorable.

“Well, you’ve never done this before, either,” he says, gesturing widely and nearly banging the fellow seated next to him in the head. “I mean, really, how can this monstrosity even get off the ground, let alone stay in the air? For hours. Over the ocean?!” He wipes at his forehead, and I lean in and kiss him gently on the cheek.

“You know this is the only way. No trans-atlantic portkeys for at least another year.”

Ron pulls a face. “Yeah, I know. Couldn’t we have taken a ship instead?”

I shake my head. “You heard Minerva. We’ve got to get to the States as soon as possible. So, we fly.”

Ron harrumphs. “I’d rather use my broom,” he mutters, shifting in his seat. 

“You’d freeze your gorgeous arse off,” I remind him, and he nods, leaning in to me and pressing his lips to mine.

There’s an electronic ding, and the pilot’s voice scratches from the overhead speakers, his odd, twangy American accent strangely soothing:

“All right, folks, we’ve been cleared for take-off. Our estimated flight time is just over eight hours, with our arrival at New York’s JFK anticipated around seven forty-five PM, local time. The weather forecast for the Big Apple is mostly cloudy skies with light rain and temperatures in the upper thirties. Hope y'all brought along your winter coats and umbrellas. Please make sure you’re belted in, thanks for flying Trans-Global, and enjoy the ride. Flight attendants, prepare for take-off.”

“Shite,” Ron says.

I look over at him as the stewardess walks past, making sure we’re securely belted in. The bloke next to Ron is sound asleep, snoring like there’s no tomorrow. 

Another _ding_ , and the overhead lights go off. 

Ron curses under his breath as the plane lurches forward, the thrum of the huge engines kicking up a notch. The jet rolls bumpily across the concrete, turning sharply and stopping. 

Ron grasps for my hand and squeezes it tightly.

“Fuck, Harry. What have you gotten me into?”

I look over at him and smile, just at the engines rev up. 

They roar and vibrate, and the huge Muggle thing starts to roll, all bumpy and loud and scary, not at all like anything magical. The engines continue to scream louder and louder, and we're pushed back into our seats as we accelerate down the runway. Everything’s shaking and bumping, and I’m fairly certain Ron’s about to jump out of his skin. 

But not me; I love every fucking second of it, enjoying the sheer power and audacity of it, the very idea of such a heavy, metal thing being able to fly nearly intoxicating. 

Really, I can’t think of anything more magical than that.

Ron’s eyes are closed, and he’s crushing my hand. 

I glance out the window, watching the painted lines on the runway go by in a blur. 

Then, there’s a lurch, quite small, actually, and I can tell the front of the jet has lifted. 

The next instant, the rumbling of the tires disappears, and the plane leaves the ground and lifts up, arrowing away and banking to our left, clearly airborne. 

Sure, it’s still not completely smooth, but that‘s the way of it. 

Ron opens his eyes and looks at me. 

He smiles, and I smile back, squeezing his hand.

Yeah, we’re flyin'...

 

_**~~~ fin ~~~** _

__

_**For K...** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics from _"Wonderland"_ :
> 
> If you could feel  
>  How I must feel,  
>  The winds of quiet change,
> 
> If you could see  
>  What I must see,  
>  Still hidden in the rain.
> 
> But when the thunder rolls  
>  It comes and covers up my soul,  
>  And you will take my hand  
>  And be with me in wonderland.
> 
> I am an honest man,  
>  I need the love of you.  
>  I am a working man,  
>  I feel the winter too.
> 
> If you could hear  
>  What I must hear,  
>  Then nothing would replace
> 
> The fifty years of sweat and tears  
>  That never left a trace.
> 
> But when I look at you,  
>  I see you feel the same way too,  
>  And you will take my hand and be  
>  With me in wonderland.
> 
> I am an honest man,  
>  I need the love of you.  
>  I am a working man,  
>  I feel the winter too.
> 
> You still remember other days  
>  When every head was high.  
>  I watched that pride be torn apart,  
>  Beneath a darker sky.
> 
> With innocence within ourselves,  
>  We sing the same old song.  
>  And you will take my hand  
>  And make believe it's wonderland.
> 
> I need the love of you,  
>  I am a working man,  
>  I feel the winter too. 
> 
> I am an honest man,  
>  I need the love of you.  
>  I am a working man,  
>  I feel the winter too.
> 
> Wonderland...  
>  Wonderland...  
>  Wonderland...  
>  Wonderland...
> 
> _\---Stuart Adamson (1958 - 2001)_


End file.
